Frozen

The geese were out of reach today. He hobbled along, the weight of his rifle bearing down on his shoulder in the winter wind. If he kept moving, he didn’t notice the numbness on the periphery of his limbs. He had to keep his wits about him. A still bird was a dead bird.

He circled the perimeter of the pond, trying to stay light on his feet. A brush of color. A fox. He shot. The sound of the bullet in the canyon jarred his nerves. He had to keep his wits about him. He saw what looked like a deer, tried to get within range. The only way towards the creature was over a dark part of the pond. He never walked on the pond – even this time of year—but he could still see the deer there and he hadn’t killed a thing all day.

He stepped, delicate-like, on to the ice. The natural floor seemed sturdy enough. The deer moved and he followed. As he stepped back onto the bank of snow, he looked back at the pond. Something had caught his eye in the flurry. He scanned the glassy surface. He now saw it – a bit of color, warm amongst the cerulean-lined whiteness. He turned back to the deer. She was gone.

Against his better judgment, he moved towards the color and watched it expand as he approached. There was a familiar shape—rectangular—closest to the surface. As he neared, he saw what it was—a hand buried under the ice, seemingly pressing upward, as if to get out. And the rest of the color blossomed into the rest of her body, naked, blue, but still warm in comparison to his winter world. She was beautiful—frozen in a moment of her youth. In her hands were a few weeds with the remains of dandelion. She had held on to something in those last moments, hoping the natural world would come to her aid. And did it, he wondered. Did she feel their lives ripped from the ground like her own. She was returning to the earth in the slowest of fashion. The longer she stayed in this form, the more opportunity there was for the world to see her as she was and draw conclusions. He had seen it before in some form or another, smoking a cigarette under a bridge, or bandaging wrists in a treatment center. He knew this woman. Not this one, the others. There was nothing he could do. The damage had already been done. He could call the sheriff. He considered leaving her here—it seemed a more natural place for her. But the ice would thaw. She would be open to the elements.

“Can’t do nothing for her until the spring,” the Sheriff said.

“We can crack it open and pull her out.”

“Nah, you’ll risk yourself if you do. We’ll take note of where she is and get to her before the rest of the world gets to her. It’s a shame. Tenth one this month.”

He trudged home at the onset of dusk. That night, unable to sleep, he stared at the ceiling, imagined it as a long block of ice. He got up, pulled the bottle of scotch he had left out in the snowdrift the night before, took long swigs until he couldn’t remember anymore.

He dreamed of the woman, her body, beginning to shift, flowing in melting waters, as if she was alive. Her hair, like a golden halo, was bright against the depths.

He pounded away at the ice all morning. By noon he had made a crack in the veneer. By dinnertime the crack ran down to the flowing water underneath. He went home, had a hot meal, and then went back again the following morning. After a week, he had outlined her frame with fault lines in the ice. And another week still the ice had fallen through to the water below. He pulled each chunk of ice out with his own hands until all that lay below was the icy water.

Her form had traveled slightly. He had to move quickly before the water froze over again. Her frozen hand was just within reach. He pulled with all his might to bring her body to the surface. She was magnificently heavy as he pulled her out. He slipped on the ice and for a moment the sky went dark above him. He dragged her by the shoulders, then set her down. He had the impulse to resuscitate her and had to stop himself. He took a blanket he had brought and wrapped it around her. He had to remind himself – not for warmth. Decency, maybe. He had rescued people from drowning before. His sister. A girl at a party. Maybe, he thought, in some delusional sort of way, that if he just bundled her up, she would miraculously revive into full color. He pulled her body onto a cot he had brought from his cabin and dragged the cot down the trail.

The Sheriff would be mad. But trusting her body to the elements would be negligence. And there was enough of that already. Ten suicides this month. Mostly overdoses.

By the time he reached his cabin, nightfall had set in. He wouldn’t be able to bring her body into town until the morning. Logic said to lay her on the bank outside, but he didn’t feel right about it. Instead, he left her on the cot on the other side of the room, as if she might be comforted by this gesture. He finished the bottle of scotch. He found his secret stash of dope, a moment of peace. Then he went to sleep.

He dreamed of the woman again, but she seemed to be treading water and she spoke in a low, soothing tone. When he awoke, the woman was laying by his side, alive, staring into his eyes. He jumped. She grabbed his arm.

“It’s okay,” she said.

She kissed him.

He couldn’t understand what was happening. He was dreaming. He was dreaming. But he couldn’t seem to wake. As he lay there next to this beautiful woman and felt the coolness, left behind by her, across his lips and then across his face, down to his heart, he understood. He would not wake. And she was right. It was okay.